


he walks in beauty, like the night

by shecouldbeamazing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Orpheus & Eurydice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shecouldbeamazing/pseuds/shecouldbeamazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever Sherlock was with John, all he heard was music. </p><p>Now all he hears is silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he walks in beauty, like the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bencumberwub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bencumberwub/gifts).



> I wrote this for my friend Bethany after reading up on the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice...I cried. And then this happened.

It was always the same. Nothing ever changed. Every day was dull, every movement boring. He never had reason to complain before. He’d had anyone and anything at his disposal doing anything he wanted them to. He was a celebrity blessed with the power of enchantment with music. No one could resist him. If Sherlock played them music, they would grovel at his feet.

Unfortunately power, however incredible, had taken its toll on Sherlock. The thrill of the game had lost its appeal. He already knew what to expect, the reactions were now tiresome. Composing was growing to be a hassle and running from countless women was driving him up the wall. Having people fawn over him did wonders for his ego. At this point, all it did was try his patience.

They all loved him without question once his fingers set to playing and any other man would have accepted the attention without complaint. Sherlock, though, wasn’t just any other man. A woman’s touch wasn’t something he sought after, but that secret he kept to himself. This was Greece after all.

Still he wanted, more than anything, to be understood. He relished in his difference, but being different was as boring as being normal these days.

\--

In frustration and rage, he slammed his lyre on the ground cursing and pulling at his hair in frustration. Sherlock Holmes, loved for his music all throughout Greece, had finally hit his breaking point.

He couldn’t hear the music anymore. His gift enabled him to hear music everywhere he went. In life, he saw notes. He saw them in the wind, in the trees, in the chatter in the streets. Life was a cacophony that only he could transpose, but now there was nothing. Only a low thrum remained.

What good was he now? What purpose did he serve? All he knows is music. This is all he’s ever done. Playing was his way of life, his source of income. Without it, what could he give to the people in exchange for food and shelter? Without it, how could he survive? No one would be able to listen to his old songs forever. They always expected more from him, always craved more.

And now he had nothing left to give.

\--

For a while, he wandered the streets with is lyre by his side, the people staring at him in wonder and anticipation. Sherlock couldn’t indulge them. He’d keep walking and their disappointment latched onto him like a burden, weighing down on him with every step.

He would be fine, he thought to himself. This was just a small bump in the road. He didn’t mind being alone. Solitude was what brought the music to him. Only when he was alone could he hear clearly.

But the small bump grew to be a small boulder to a hill and to a mountain. Weeks passed without a new idea. Weeks turned to months and he could feel the panic setting in. He never showed his vexation, always kept his composure, but as expected the people grew weary of his music and the same old tunes. They tossed him out of inns and the women turned their noses up at him. The gods averted their eyes when they looked down on earth and Apollo, the very one who gave Sherlock his musical prowess, sat on his cloud in worry.

He knew the wonder Sherlock was capable of. He saw his potential the moment Sherlock was conceived. Sherlock had just lost his spark. The fire had died down. All was not lost. What Apollo needed to do was find Sherlock inspiration.

And he knew exactly where to find it.

\--

In the meantime, Sherlock disappeared into the crowd and his name soon meant nothing to the eyes of Greece. He lived off scraps and stealing from those who wouldn’t miss an extra apple or loaf of bread. It was hopeless. He didn’t know how much longer he could do this. He walked from city to city playing until they were sick of him.

It was only until he was crossing from Mycenae to Corinth that he met John.

And everything changed.

\--

Suddenly, he found himself writing and playing again.

Suddenly, with John, he could think clearly and there wasn’t a harmony in the universe he couldn’t play without him by his side.

John was different. He wasn’t as bewitched as the others by his music. He wasn’t as boring. And that’s what Sherlock loved about him.

No one ever thought to acquaint themselves with the man behind the lyre, the dark curls, and the cold demeanor. They just wanted him for his music. _Another song, another song._ But John, he saw everything. He saw everything and loved him still.

Suddenly, he couldn’t bring himself to be alone. He and John went everywhere together, bewitching the people and having money thrown at their feet in heaps. John was his muse. John was every note he played, every breath he breathed, and the world seemed as if to sing with him.

Apollo was rejoicing above him, proposing a toast to Aphrodite and the gods all sat round, listening to Sherlock’s music.

\--

Sherlock was going to tell him. He tried working up the nerve before, but there was hardly any time. Most days, he barely had time to eat or sleep, but tonight was different.

John, I love you.

Four words. Simple enough really. Shouldn’t be too difficult. They were so small, so short, they could never convey how much he truly felt, but they needed to be said. They’d been together only a year and yet it felt like a lifetime. He yearned for more.

Time, though, wasn’t something they had.

He had to tell John tonight. John was a soldier and he was set to fight in Troy by next week. The war was going on ten years now, and who knew what the point of it was anymore. All that mattered to him was that they needed soldiers and John was next in line.

Sherlock planned to sing to him. He planned on composing a song that not even John Watson could shy away from.

And he would convince John to stay. They would find another warrior. Someone else would defeat Achilles. Someone else would bring Helen back to Greece. Someone else. Not John. They couldn’t have John.

But the universe didn’t give Sherlock a say in the matter for when he returned to their home, the door was off its hinges and the tables were overturned, all of the music he’d composed was ripped in pieces on the ground, all of their money had been taken and his heart started to pound.

Rushing into the other room, all he thought of was John, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

He expected to see John laying on the ground near his bed, struck with shock and looking at Sherlock for guidance like he always did, maybe fuming and yelling at Sherlock to do something but never like this. Nothing like this.

John was on the ground, still, and covered with blood. Seeing him there nearly caused his legs to fall out from beneath him. The back door was open where the thieves had made their escape and blood stained the white walls.

There had been a struggle, he noticed, but he had no desire to deduce his death further as tears filled and spilled from his eyes. His throat closed and he let out a choked sob, sinking to his knees beside John’s lifeless form. Sherlock pulled John to his chest, holding his head to his shoulder and he rocked back and forth, letting out a howl of sorrow that sounded so much like John’s name. The tears fell without end. His bones ached so much it hurt to breathe and he shook as sobs overcame him.

_No no no. Wake up, John, wake up._

\--

Whenever Sherlock was with John, all he heard was music.

Now all he hears is silence.

\--

For a while he wanders. Same old life, same old songs. Life returned to its routinely boring, hopeless state, and he can’t stop thinking of John. His lyre strings start to break. His heart doesn’t mend.

After burying John, he almost ends it one day, finding himself at the edge of a cliff. He forces himself to take a step back.

_John wouldn’t have wanted this._

\--

He gets an idea.

\--

Sherlock knows what he’s doing. In fact, he’s never been more certain of a decision in his entire life.

If he could get the entire world to bow at his feet then he could do this.

He could make it to the Underworld.

He could bring John back.

\--

The journey wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. There was some near death encounters, a few dead ends, and a couple of times he found himself lost, but he could practically hear the gods conspiring in the heavens and the path became easier. Needless to say, he made it there unharmed and no worse for wear. But even if the gods hadn’t intervened, Sherlock would have fought tooth and nail to get his way into the Underworld, even if Hades didn’t allow it. He would do anything.

As he entered the gates and handed Charon a golden drachma, a chill went up his spine. The Land of the Dead was eerie and reeked of lost souls and desolation.  

It was a risky decision. This was no place for the living, but he knew he wouldn’t be given another chance. So he was going to make this count.

\--

He stands before Hades, lyre in hand and his eyes as cold as ever. His heart is in pieces and only now will he show it.

He doesn’t see John in the masses of the dead.

He doesn’t want to.

He sings instead. He laments in anguish and lays his heart out before Hades and Persephone, hoping to move them somehow. After a while, he starts to cry but he doesn’t stop.

Persephone is the first to break, tears visible on her cheeks. Still, Sherlock doesn’t relent. Hades is the one he’s after.

Hades’ heart was made of stone and he knew all the strings he had to play to get it to crack.

If he had to stay forever for that to happen, then he would.

\--

Sherlock didn’t know how long he stayed there. It felt like days before Hades finally put up his hand, a somber expression on his face.

“My brother told me you would be here. He would not tell me what you would do. But you have gotten through to me.” Sherlock daren’t breathe. “You can have John back, but only if you promise to do exactly what I ask.”

Sherlock nodded, barely believing what he was hearing. He dismissed the tears in Hades eyes.

All he could think of was John.

\--

He thought this would’ve been easy. He thought he could do this.

_You must go back from whence you came, to the upper world and never return._

Sherlock was halfway out of the Underworld and his mind began to doubt. He was a man of logic and reason and reason was telling him that Hades had no gain in giving John back to him.

_You must not look back until you have reached the top._

 Hades was the god of the dead. His job was to keep the dead from escaping. So why would he listen to Sherlock? Why would he do this?

_Pass the threshold with him and I will return him to you._

He kept on walking and focusing on the light above. Sherlock could feel John’s spirit behind him. It took everything in him not to turn around to check and see. His resistance was starting to weaken as his mind kept thinking.

What if John isn’t there? What if he’d lied? What if this was all just one big ploy to get me to leave?

_I will return him to you._

The thoughts started to consume him and the light still seemed so far away. One look surely wouldn’t matter. He would only take a glimpse.

_Do as I ask._

He was getting closer and closer and closer to the top and his resolve was weakening with each passing step.

Sherlock could barely tell if John was behind him anymore, but he’d made it! He’d made it and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest in happiness, driving almost all of the worry from his head. As he stepped into the light and breathed the air of the living, he turned his head too soon, basking in his triumph too early. He thought he’d made it.

And he had.

But John hadn’t.

As he turned around fully, he saw that John was there all along, but dread filled him instantly and he dropped his lyre, grasping, reaching for John to try and pull him over with him, but it was too late. Sherlock grabbed for John’s hand, the one he’d held so many times before only to have it slip through him.

“ _No._ Please- John!” He tried again, this time for the other hand, but to no avail.

“John, I have to tell you-,”

This time he reached for his face, tried to hold it and caress it only to have the wind blow him away. All he held now was mist.

“I love you,” he whispered brokenly. Falling to his knees, there he stayed and wept.

\--

Ages passed before Sherlock moved again and when he did he left his lyre in the dust.

The world is silent once again.

  


End file.
